


Smells Like a Heist

by Orthodoxia



Series: Guilty tales from the Mojave wasteland [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: But that depends what you consider a romance..., F/M, Frenemies? People stuck together in order to survive, not really a romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orthodoxia/pseuds/Orthodoxia
Summary: Continuation from ‘Plundering History’ - Dean has been alone in the Madre for one decade too many, so naturally, any and every choice the latest tourist makes, must be somehow for the sole purpose of undermining him. Or so he chooses to think.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

_The **Sierra Madre** is a mythical place in the wastes, a dead city surrounded by a poisonous cloud. Many travelers in the Mojave have sought it out after claiming to have heard a woman's voice on a Pre-War radio broadcast, only to never be heard from again. The Courier is lured to the Sierra Madre by that same broadcast advertising the gala grand opening._

*

_Puesta del Sol_

The cloud was as still as an old curtain, thick at places as it curled around columns and collapsed walls. With no wind in Sierra Madre, she had found it strange and unsettling at first. Even vaults had some kind of draft pulling on the old corridors, and the great outdoors of the Mojave could never be so utterly still. She licked her lips and ran her tongue across the rooftop of her mouth. God said the air tasted like copper. Old. Older than some of the vaults she had been in, and yet, this place still held the appearance of barely having seventy years on it. Admittedly, those had to be some rough seventy years, but she had seen vaults with more wear and tear on them. Oh sure, some walls and rooftops were torn down, makeshift ramps built in places where walkways used to be… little things like that, but she suspected those came from deliberate action - say, with explosives.

“Tourists...” She wasn’t watching, but frustration would probably make the singer accompanying her throw his hands up in the air, were it not for fear that made him stick low to the shadows.

Dean’s explosives, perhaps. Although, in ghoul’s own words, other ‘tourists’ could have helped the reconstruction along the way.

“Just because the ghosts can’t see further than their noses doesn’t mean they won’t find us if you keep lollygagging out in the open!” A petulant voice hissed from behind her. She ignored it in favour of her own musings.

A stage.

That’s what this place reminded her of. To be looked at, and not touched. A production of such extravagance, it could have only been made a reality here, in the middle of the Nevada desert.

“Are you waiting for them to give you a standing ovation for eluding them this long?”

This stage even had its very own, living, breathing and very vocal, Old World celebrity.

“…would have gotten one myself ages ago…”

Of course, she doubted that Sinclair’s original intent was to turn this into a ghost town - her lips quirked up, in more ways than one as it turned out to be - for the benefit of a single star to hold the audience captive.

The Courier focused her attention at the far end of the street. There was one of those _ghost creatures_ there, near the small fountain. It shuffled, an eerie, sickly green glow of its mask leaving trails as it jumped a fair distance and, _sniffed the air_ , she thought was the appropriate term. Focusing on the Cloud behind it she spotted several more pairs of irradiated green dots shuffling through the red haze. There was no questioning her tracking skills or her Pip-Boy’s tracking program. A pack was on the hunt.

For all intents and purposes that path forward was blocked to them. So, unless those things spread out long enough for her to pass through the Cloud infested square, which also happened to be littered with traps, it was rooftops again. A relatively safe option, except she _really_ wanted to get into that building they’ve taken to guarding.

The Courier watched them gather and go around setting traps when one raised its head in her direction. She was fairly certain that it couldn’t see her - proved by the fact that she had already managed to move passed them in these tightly knotted streets - but this one kept focus on her location for longer than she was comfortable with. It was akin to a staring contest with a deathclaw. A deathclaw with a pack within an earshot should it suspect the contest was rigged in her favour.

In the Mojave, to survive one had to know when to stand down. Sierra Madre didn’t seem to be much different in that regard.

Keeping low she pulled herself from behind the lonely bench under a lonely dead tree, and backed around the pillars to the entryway of the café, where the old ghoul waited near slightly ajar door. It was set in prime position for Dean to slip in and shut it tight at the first sight of a ‘local’ deciding to take a stroll down their ally with couple of ‘friends’. It was only because of the shared bomb collars that she didn’t need to question if his escape plan had taken her into account, as well.

Under cover of the Cloud they both slid inside and barred the door settling at either side of them, listening. Outside was deathly silence, interrupted only by a distant sound of heavy hissing breath, shuffling of large boots and an occasional clang of a bear trap being dragged against cobblestone.

Bear traps? Why _did_ the Sierra Madre have a heavy supply of bear traps? The singer had no answer for her. No agreeable answer.

The thing moved next to café’s door, stopped and abruptly sounds of metal against metal, and metal against stone were heard. The low commotion and tinkering, along with grunts and wheezing lasted for a few long moments before slowly disappearing down the twisting streets. Both Dean and the Courier shared a look, realizing that the Ghost People have probably left a few presents for them right outside the door - snares that would take away their legs in a single bite. The creatures knew they had intruders in their midst and had blocked another path. They were trying to box them in. Had been trying for a while now.

Smart. But the traps were outside and they were inside, and Courier Six at least, allowed herself a moment to catch her breath, and relax for a bit. Pale light of the hologram idling behind the counter reflected on Dean’s sunglasses and her black helmet as they stared at each other. Dean quickly stood up pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his tuxedo. Smoke curled around his face and there was a sound of deep sigh, possibly that of relief but the former star would be hardly pressed to admit to it.

“That was too close for my comfort,” he said and rested his hands on the counter, his shoulders tense under the weight of stress. It was the only place in the building with some decent light in it. It was also a small comfort that those creatures outside were afraid of, or venerated, holograms enough not to bother with checking which were the ones that could shoot lasers out of their heads.

“You’re fretting, Domino.” The Courier called from her place by the door, her voice muffled by that pitch-black helmet and her head bowed over her pip-boy as she tapped one button after the other. “You know better than anyone of _us tourists_ how blind they are.”

“I do. And I also happen to _know_ that they outnumber us like a wasp’s nest outnumbers a tarantula…” he paused, sarcasm losing its steam with the lack of a better analogy, “Or whatever that prey may be. This is not the first time your nose poking into every corner had me almost killed! What has possessed you to go through every brick like a starved hippo!?” His head turned, murderous glare behind his sunglasses at the nigh-invisible hunched figure in the black suit of armor, promising retribution for each quickened beep from the shitty collar decorating his neck.

He had to admit, highly unwillingly, that she had the talent necessary to sneak up to more than a few lone locals. And also disable them in a manner so brutal, back in his day a woman would have to take a few bottles of vodka and doctor’s bag worth of chems to make it happen. He wasn’t squeamish, far from it and even if he had been, the Sierra Madre had that sentiment thoroughly beaten out of him. Her acting the part of ol’ doggy boy was most definitely ensuring Dean’s own increasing survival rate.

His opinion of her might have changed _just a tad_. And not in the way he thought it would.

But in the back of his mind, it was just another stark reminder that the world outside of Sierra Madre wasn’t standing as still as he might have liked it.

But returning to the matter at hand and re-focusing on the unflattering situation he was in...

He would not even be in this state had she not insisted to take the _long_ way around, passing through every door not nailed shut or taped down, crossing every roof that looked marginally capable of holding _her_ weight, making the damn collar beep by going on into the parts unknown, perusing her useless scavenger hunt… Oh, she had single-handedly invited death by explosion, Cloud poisoning, Ghost People dragging him away and a _heart attack_.

Almost like she was planning every single one of _those_ and _her own_ survival meant nothing to her so long as she got to see him jump!

His milky eyes narrowed in suspicion. The way things were going he just had to pick a lottery ticket and pray his death would be a painless one. But Dean Domino had not survived as long as he did in the Villa by taking the long way around if it happened to be littered with undying monstrosities from the depths of whatever place the Cloud cooked up. Or by letting some tourist yank his explosive leash left and right at her suicidal whim in search of-…

Were those _paper scraps_?

If he still had nostrils, they’d be flaring.

“Come on, Domino. The way you act, you could almost fool me into thinking that you’ve never went scavenging before,” she said quickly pushing one such small scrap of such paper, creased and folded one too many times, she had found earlier, back into one of many pockets of her armor. Dean noticed immediately, both it and how she slipped past his question, and he was not pleased in the least. The tourist was up to something. He didn’t know if it involved him - and for the sake of his own hide he decided to presume that it did - but he was not about to let it come that far.

“Puesta del Sol isn’t in the top five list of my choices I’d go to even if I had to.” He pointed at her accusingly, “It was your insisting on sticking out like a sore thumb that has us boxed in here.”

The Courier waved her hand dismissively and settled on the opposite side of the counter, sliding through the silent seller. The holographic head played shadows and left quickly diminishing imprints on smooth surface of her black helmet - like a fake, always smiling face. It was needlessly creepy, and Dean had the guts to admit it to himself.

“We’ll use the rooftops,” she said with a shrug, “I’ll get you to your stage in time for the main event. It’s not like Elijah can start the show without you.” Black helmet tilted to the side as she leaned over the counter and watched him.

“I suppose I don’t have anything to worry about then, do I? Oh, except several hundred of Ghost People swarming this roof in droves once the band starts playing,” he snapped spitefully already seeing the disaster for the ‘odd man out’ play out. He had _no_ plans for letting that happen, let him tell you… When he looked up from his musings preoccupied with death and best ways to avoid it, she was not there at the receiving end of his complaint.

“ _Hundreds_ of Ghost People? You’re stretching it,” her voice, muffled as it was, came from below. He leaned over to see that the black suit was, in long respected tradition of any wastelander, rummaging through the cupboards under the counter. “Unless they can reproduce…”

This line of thought might have caused a collective shudder.

But the Courier didn’t believe that the scientists of Big MT, even with their brains rotting away in mentats, had the foresight to install _that kind_ of program in the Trauma Override Harness, “And from all your _generously supplied_ information, more people seem to die a safe death out here,” one hand peeped up, gesturing vaguely at the front door, “than get dragged away by them,” her two fingers mimicked the walking along the counter edge before suddenly dropping into the abyss.

“An optimist,” he drawled, not amused in the slightest. “I can already feel the hours of my life thick away-...” Some junk food, along with some tin cans plopped on the counter noisily, interrupting him.

“So unless the empty suits have mutated to the point they can breed,” another collective shudder, “I don’t think you have too much to worry about.”

“Is that so? Sure glad one of us knows what you’re doing.” ‘Thick with sarcasm’ didn’t even begin to cover the tone of his voice. He knew she was deluding herself because experience had taught him otherwise. What she had said might make sense - or indeed, _would_ make sense, had they been trapped in any other place but here. But they were in Sierra Madre. And Sierra Madre had a life of her own, a rhythm, a _beat_ one had to follow or die. This tourist had better learned to tap-dance to it fast or his head will be up for grabs along with hers.

“Now, how about treating me with some of that famous martini of yours?” She shook a foul smelling jug - _when did she even have time to scrape that off the walls?!_

There was something of a grin in her voice. He assumed so, since he couldn’t see it. With a downturn of his lips he pulled a cigar hanging from the corner and snuffed it out in a nearby ashtray, before taking the offered pitcher.

“I’ll have you know, I don’t make a habit of serving drinks to others,” his voice was flat, smoke still curling from his ruined lips.

“Then I’ll treasure the experience. And won’t cross the line by asking you to be nice again.” Courier’s voice, tingling with a grin and smugness as it was, didn’t exclude the possibility of a ‘much’ following that sentence. One exposed muscle under his right eye took a moment to tic. This was already the longest heist of his life, but Dean was confident that he could endure a little more of this tag-along game, this… frustrating, slightly useful, creature that called herself, he snorted, _the Courier_ \- before the casino's vault laid sprawled open before him.

Dean Domino could be a _very_ patient man when he set his mind to it.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilty: Level 40 Courier  
> Big MT -> Zion -> Divide -> post game/Independent ending -> Sierra Madre


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

It was a very much welcomed breather. Tense as all hell, what with those things just outside the door, but Sierra Madre didn’t offer much opportunity for rest outside of that safe haven that Dean had cultivated over the years. Even if ‘safe’ and ‘Madre’ in the same sentence made for a lot of contradiction.

Watching him mix drinks, a foul-smelling concoction that was burning her throat even before it hit the glass, Guilty calculated that the ghoul before her was as tense as a piano string. Dean Domino didn’t like taking the scenic route. Were he not a sturdy ghoul of non-crazy variety, it would require but a tiny push to give him a proper send off - feet first. Under her helmet, a wide grin split her face just imagining the possibilities.

She had counted on it.

Since he, _oh so cleverly ‘_ coerced’ her into participating in his little scheme, she had decided to return his kindness by getting him to his assigned post in the _longest, most roundabout, morbidly dangerous_ way possible.

Petty? Childish?

Definitely.

Potentially suicidal given her current situation?

_Abso-fucking-lutely!_

And she relished every minute of it!

But she was also well aware that it was only prudent to familiarize herself with Madre’s layout and not rely solely on her pip-boy, in case of unexpected trouble - which will happen, there were _no_ delusions about that. She stifled a chuckle, insisting she wasn’t _that far_ gone. So with Domino in tow and in no hurry to get into the casino just yet - there were vending machines _everywhere_ \- she was content with sightseeing the Villa and exploring every nook and cranny she could find in this thick fog.

And much as she had expected, it was turning out to be a gold mine of fun and information.

Wasn’t that the reason she was here in the first place?

:*.*.*.*.*:

As he pulled out couple of old glasses the ghoul glanced at where new girl had leaned against the bar. Under the light of the hologram she had spread out holotapes she had found in various buildings - _dangerous buildings_ she had him dragged into, might he add. He had every reason to feel miffed about that. Still, it wasn’t too bad to have someone watch his back. For the heist of this size to be pulled off successfully, having a partner was a must. The potential problem of the tourist being blatantly coerced _into_ being his partner, didn’t even register as a noteworthy blip across his mind. After all, charm, clever wit and a bit of persuasion here and there were required to get his previous partner to commit fully to the heist.

He liked to think he had more class than relying on _bomb collars_.

…not that he was in position of denying their effectiveness.

Now that the things he _could_ control were well underway to be roped in tightly, he turned to the elephant in the room. The old man. Dean hadn’t counted on someone like him, showing up in Sierra Madre, _shackling_ _him_ \- the pit of his belly twisted with rage just thinking of it - into similarly demeaning position as well. He didn’t like it, nevermind that he couldn’t even remember it happening! It was one contract he wanted out of.

Still, Dean Domino didn’t consider himself particularly fussy. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have gotten past his first gig in the entertainment industry. No, no, he would take what he could get. Until the opportunity presented itself and he could take something better.

One step at the time, and with patience of a veteran safari hunter was how he operated.

“Sierra Madre Martini,” he heard himself say placing the two freshly filled glasses between them. His ruined lips pressed into a thin line. Making drinks had a way of sending him down the memory lane.

She brought the glass to her eye level, inspecting the murky, toxic liquid.

“It’s pink,” she observed. She hadn’t expected that. Dean snorted. It was incredulous to think that she could even distinguish between the colors through that thing on her head.

She raised her helmet a bit so she could take a drink. He took notice of it instantly. He could see her lips, dried and cracked but nicely shaped, she still had all her teeth - that he could see - and that surprised him. He wouldn’t think that anything like dental hygiene still existed, never mind the constant dangers of living involved nowadays. He thought he spotted strange discoloration on her left cheek, running up until it disappeared into the shadows. Could have been trick of the light, though. Thick shadow covering upper part of her face left quite a lot to the imagination. For all he knew her face could be peeled off and there was a cleanly polished skull from her nose up.

It was a fleeting glance, but at least he knew she didn’t _appear_ to be like him. A ghoul. It took some time getting used to the slang when the first tourists started visiting Sierra Madre couple of decades ago. He was still Dean Domino. Lack of skin did not change who the man was inside.

Maybe, just maybe, it made it more apparent.

The visor came down and what she had allowed to show off her face disappeared under the black surface reflecting hologram’s static visage. He understood the need to be covered head-to-toe in protective gear in a place that had a habit of killing its visitors at every corner, twist, alleyway, catwalk, roof, room and toilet. The very air of Madre was lethal. But why wouldn’t she dignify him and raise her visor when they were safe, alone and spoke was beyond him. As a matter of fact, it was frustrating. And it became infuriating the moment he had noticed that she would, in fact, reveal her face fully whenever talking to the mutant.

Didn’t he deserve a bit of professionalism on her part? It wouldn’t hurt to have to look your partner in the eye before shooting them in the back. He still held some pride in his good manners.

Not that he was planning to do any of that. Yet. He had bigger fish to fry.

“So, what possessed you to look under every staircase?” He asked after she had finished slugging her drink down, like it was some kind of third-rate cider, and kept on looking over her pip-boy. No manners whatsoever!

Her hand came up from one of her pockets, a torn but well preserved notebook paper, and she showed him.

“Reading what happened in this place.”

‘ _Liquor shipment finally came in today - didn't realize working here would be like working in a dry state. Just need to keep it out of sight of security and Sinclair, and ought to take the edge off the day, keep it stashed in the back.’_

And then the other: _‘One thing about the liquor they're shipping in, it's making somebody talk - the big man came down today and told us that we have a sweet deal set up, and one slipped word in front of security can bring this all crashing down... for real.’_

“ _Bootlegging?!_ ” Of all the things to put his life in danger for…! This was a very good reason - as were many others, but that wasn’t important now - for Dean Domino to get more than just a bit livid. “You dragged _me_ all over this deathtrap so you could read about a band of morons who thought to profit of Sinclair’s stuck up idiocy?!”

Black helmeted face rose to meet his. “Really? You don’t think staying in the Madre for two hundred years was a death sentence in on itself?”

Something in the tone of her voice made him easily imagine her batting her eyelashes at him, in that uniquely condescending lady-like way. Dean’s jaw tightened. She’d plucked on a sour note in there somewhere. He had his reasons for staying - some _very good_ reasons - none of which he had to place before her feet.

“I don’t need you criticizing my choices. Or are you trying to say that the rest of the world is better off? New York? Washington D.C.? _And your precious Mojave?_ Don’t tell me it has miraculously survived free of mutated monstrosities?”

Black helmet kept staring. What was a mutated monstrosity to the singer, was potentially a domestic animal to the local farmers. But she took a wild stab in the dark and guessed that he didn’t know that. Or how much of the world survived. It just looked a bit different now. Then came a  snort, “I like to think that the Mojave at least allows for an opportunity and more space to avoid any _monstrosity_ that sees you as lunch.” Her attention went back to strangely well-preserved paper, her voice a hum and her mind going over the sudden ideas swarming in her head like baby cazadores. A not so subtle signal that she was no longer interested in the topic.

And so once more, they lapsed into simmering silence. It was happening a lot. Two stubborn bighorners vying for the spot at the front of the heard - the one leading the heist, in this case. And even if what he was currently doing consisted mostly of _following_ , curtsy of that bearded lunatic who had strapped bomb collars on him and then placed _her_ in charge just because _she had that toy strapped to her wrist_ , Domino had to think of himself as someone with an upper hand. He had the knowledge the old man lacked - one that would make him the last man standing in the vault.

“Hmm-…” she started slowly, and Dean’s eyebrow arched at the tame tone she had suddenly taken. “These vending machines can create anything out of a single chip, right? So, why the need for the black market?”

The oddity of the question didn’t escape him, nor did the way she would stop and fuss about every time they came across one. Of all the things she could have asked - all the things that could peak her interest… why was she so curious about the Sinclair’s toys.

“Why? Because not everyone could get what they needed from those little toy boxes. Or what they wanted.” When her helmet just kept staring at him like some miniature black monolith, with a sigh the ghoul deigned to elaborate, “They could only produce things that were hard built into their programming. Chems, for instance, were available only to selected personnel, usually medical. Guns and other weapons were restricted to security here. Although, from what I’ve seen, Sinclair’s chefs could do more damage with a single knife than a whole rodeo show of local officers,” he added in afterthought before looking at the sickly colored liquid at the bottom of his glass almost as if memories have pooled down there. “You couldn’t even get a bottle of decent wine unless you had special authorization code.”

One you would have had to pay for heavily in the casino, obviously.

“Sinclair made sure all the money went to one place. Called it self-sufficient, or something like that. He favored his little puppet and light show,” his voice trailed off.

Guilty listened to him speak, tell a tale of old world. Dean had a soothing voice… when he wanted. Not comparable to softness of Graham’s, and one had to ignore the constant note of superiority woven across and in-between, but all in all, she could see why people would flock to listen to him sing. His personality certainly didn’t bring in the money.

They sat in silence surrounded by pale light, resting. Recovering. It was a place of safety in a very mad world.

“Don’t you feel very grateful for that puppet show right about now?” She asked and the hologram beside them flickered, as if it knew that it was a topic of conversation.

Dean picked up his cigarette from the ashtray, and an exhaled veil of smoke enveloped them. “They make for better company than most other people, that’s for sure.” In the case of Dean Domino that could easily mean _everyone_ else, all the time.

The Courier let out an amused chuckle, “True enough.”

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

Dean Domino didn’t like _not_ being in control.

For so long he had watched outsiders stagger into Sierra Madre - die by their own hand, their friend’s hand, that of unforgiving surroundings or on occasion _his_ \- while for two centuries, he had survived all the dangers the Villa had thrown at him.

Oh, he had been in tight spots before. In Sierra Madre, waking up alive in the morning didn’t guarantee your evening will be just as fortunate. But that was just him and his quick wits in a life and ‘not dying tonight’ predicament. Not a bomb around his neck, not some girl, and an old man on the radio dictating where he should go, what he should do, how to do it… An old man who had discovered how to enter the casino in a matter of months while he had been languishing in this hole for-

He stopped himself. Now was not the time for that. This was a golden opportunity and, since he obviously wasn’t going to miss a single drop of it, he was determined to push through all the indignation thrown at him. Soon, he will finally be able to enter the casino and after that… well, he had plan in place - for one generous, hefty payback. He just had to be present to execute it. Dean looked down at his drink and then at the woman sitting with her back turned to him. He was already questioning her sense of self-preservation but this suited him fine for when the time came.

There was also the question of his new ‘bow tie’ but he figured he’d cross, burn and bomb that bridge once he got to it.

“So, who’s Danny Parker?” She asked cutting his marching thought process in half. To his credit, he didn’t slip or perform any remotely embarrassing overreaction at this most unexpected inquiry.

“That’s a bloody odd question to ask now of all times. What prompted this on?” He asked curiously in turn, because he really couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would ever ask about that weasel. He couldn’t think of any reason why anyone would even know about Danny Parker, of all people, today.

Her shoulders made a deceptive little shrug, “You keep mentioning him. And in a way that makes me think it involved a bullet and his head.”

The ghoul was silent for a long moment. And if it wasn’t… it certainly seemed like a long moment to him. The question was out of the blue, but it sparked something in him. Some little need to _talk_.

“Danny Parker… There wasn’t a person alive,” he paused briefly and corrected himself, “alive at the time, who didn’t want to put at least one bullet in that empty head of his. Some would have gladly paid for more than one.” He chuckled, images flashing behind his eyes. Memories from before the war, before the bomb, of people he worked with, people he saw nightly, some of them insufferable, others he just hated - memories of happier, better, _different_ times. Sights and sounds and lights!

She remained silent, choosing instead to turn and lean on her elbows and forearms and look at him curiously, if curiosity could be attributed to a blank helmet. A rapt audience - if there was one thing he never got tired of… “Danny Parker was one, if not _the_ , penny-pinching men of his time. He wasn’t an artist, not like I. Money was his only passion, and singing was a yellow-brick road to gaining a whole lot more of it. The cheap, catchy tunes he sang, the polished appearance of a mannequin in boutique store - all of it! Just to squeeze a penny more from the audience, from his agent, even from the record house. And it showed in his performances.”

The Courier wasn’t sure how much she should believe him - not the bit about his alleged greed. Greed had survived the great war perfectly fine and was busily working its way into the new world - shit, New Vegas’ whole backbone was built upon it. No, it was that Dean Domino didn’t seem like someone who barely tolerated people on the best of days and often for some very strange reasons.

“So he was competition?”

“ _Competition?!_ ” The ghoul’s head snapped up faster than an angry radscorpion’s tail. “Are you _mad?!_ Danny Parker couldn’t string five notes together and make them sound like cats rutting, let alone make music,” he bolstered loudly. “Competition, she says,” he snorted under his breath lighting another cigar. “As if.”

“That so? His posters show him playing the piano.”

Dean’s brain short-circuited at ‘poster’ and completely ignored the rest of her words. Like doused in water, the cigar sagged at the corner of his lips. “Come again?”

“It makes a nice sound, but I always thought it was too bulky of an instrument to be convenient. Still, he seemed talented enough to be popular, considering he could play-...”

“Hold on! Hold on! Time out, partner. Let me get a few things here straight,” he let out a little self-deprecating laugh and his voice took on the menacing tone if she ever heard one coming from him. And in the past day or so she had heard him pull some nasty implications and threats through the tenor of his voice alone, even when the actual words he used were sugar and sweetness. “You’re telling me that Danny Parker’s _posters_ survived the _nuclear war_.”

The Courier realized, albeit too late, that she had stepped on the territory not unlike a minefield. On one hand, she had already detonated a large one and had to tread very carefully not to offset any more that could blow up in her face. But on the other end of this mad conversation... this was getting more interesting by the minute and she would not be true to herself if she didn’t try to poke at the open wound.

“I’ve seen a few around,” she started diplomatically, “on old buildings and such…” Casinos too. Theaters. Other previously important and prominent places. Of course, Danny Parker’s were not the only ones hanging there, but that was a can of two hundred years old food she’d rather avoid opening until the very last moment, if possible.

“Well, how utterly _marvelous_ ,” his voice dripped with venom. There’s no justice or just deserts in this world. But he knew that already. Wasn’t exactly that the reason why he had sat out to make his own justice so long ago? He leaned against the bar, fingers digging into decorative prewar marble. Sharp and predatory, his eyes narrowed on her. She had a feeling where this was going. “Well then, _courier_ , how about you tell me of other-…”

...THUD...

Quite to surprise of both of them or maybe immense annoyance - things were getting good - there was a loud thump on the floor above, and in the silence of the resort that gurgled gasping and heavy breathing bordering on drowning person grasping for last breath, was instantly recognizable. The Ghost People have entered the building.

Sierra Madre had sharpened the old singer’s reflexes but even Dean was surprised when his bowtie was yanked roughly and he tumbled over the counter with an ugly remark regarding any further tearing in his suit, as heavy, clumsy steps clobbered down the stairs. His back was pressed tightly against the bar’s wall, the clicking and snorting sounds grew louder as the creature shuffled closer.

She pressed against him, body flushed against his, one of her legs sliding between his and his bowtie still held in a tight fist as she forced him to lay low, almost forced the breath out of his lungs in effort to keep him silent. And Dean was quiet. Dean was so very quiet. Their earlier conversation, something about posters and stingy, incompetent weasels from the past - puff! Completely forgotten. Gone with the wind. And it was not all because a creature out of his waking nightmares had finished stumbling down the stairs, moved close to the wall and around the corner. Threat of fate worse than death hung heavy in the air around them, but even in a moment like this his body seemed to delight in making observations that had no business coming to forefront of his mind.

For example, the way her bulky armor wasn’t all that bulky to begin with. Or how judging by the shape underneath, which he was trying to tear the focus _away_ from curtsy of one of Sierra Madre’s local residents, she was in fact smaller than him and not, as it first appeared, a creature of bloated proportions towering over him from shadows. Or how that shape of her was something he had not seriously thought about in relation to himself in any way for a long, long time. One could say that her outer layer of armored padding was designed with a sole purpose to fool anyone into believing she was all block of foam and bulletproof material.

That’s how Dean chose to interpret it anyway, seeing how he fell for it.

He saw holorifle slide off her shoulder and her ready it, and even with his brain making sharp deviations left, right and more importantly - down, no thanks to the rude, rude, _rude_ invasion of his personal space her thigh seemed to insist on, he pulled out his knife, because he knew that once she’s done blowing holes in ghost’s suit he’d be the one to cut them apart. Not a perfect arrangement - he preferred dismembering them from safe distance, with fire, lights and accompanying sound effects, but even he had to agree that anything was better than the ghosts getting up again, and again, and right when their backs are turned.

They were in luck. The moment it noticed the hologram which turned towards the new prospective customer, even one simple one programmed to act as vendor, the creature let out a hissing sound that could only be described as startled nightstalker in the way of a rampaging deathclaw, and started to pull back.

The Courier used the opportunity and all but knocked Dean out of her way roughly as she dashed low. Butt of her holorifle came up and connected with creature’s head knocking it backwards and forcing it to stumble back. Even rattled with fear as it was, it still whizzed threateningly and swung with its arm with a bear trap strapped on it. She ducked, avoiding it and with a flip of her wrist brought her gun up, point-blank with creature’s head and neck, and before it could react a one, two, three, four shots were heard and a spray of white and glowing green fluid covered her helmet.

The body collapsed and with a few steps she skipped over it and was up the stairs to make sure no others followed the straggler. And also to close any doors that happened to be left opened. Dean had just pulled himself up from separating the head from the rest of thing’s body when her measured steppes warned him of her coming back down. She joined him and crouched over the suited body. She had seen quite a few of them by this point.

“I wouldn’t go digging through that, partner. It’s not a pretty sight. And it doesn’t offer anything of use. Believe me, I looked.” It was during one of his more desperate moments, as he recalled. His finger waded between the collar and his neck, trying to push it back, unsuccessfully, and make room for some air. He was still rattled, not that he would show, but he was - by the speed with which _this_ happened, and by whatever _that_ was which came before the monster trashed through the building. He didn’t know if he wanted to go into the deep muddy waters and decipher what had happened - he certainly did and would, just not right now - but when the girl stretched back up with a hum, that choice was made for him.

“Sure… just, before we move out - you make one killer martini,” she said with an approving, _unnervingly pleased_ chuckle and Dean noticed the clear sound of it.

His head shot towards her just in time to see the woman lower the visor on her helmet and catch the glimpse of a smug, self-satisfying, utterly _competent_ smirk which rang that too-close-to-home bell. It had all the effect of a whiplash on Domino’s mood.

In his mind, there was no pit deep or dark or _hellish_ enough, for Sinclair to rot in for all the times to come.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

“If we can go through here…” her voice trailed off as she climbed the stairs.

They moved out after that, through the upstairs’ room and with a bit more strength to them. At first they crawled along the rooftops, but were later forced to descend to the street level. Red haze covered everything as the Cloud was particularly thick in Puesta del Sol and that made bear traps, littering the streets like waste, all the more dangerous. That they had to cross all the way to reach the southern side of the district didn’t help their situation.

“Where there’s a bear trap, Ghost People aren’t far behind,” coming up beside her the ghoul singer warned in such a flat, dead tone and the Courier’s shoulders rolled to release tension. She rearranged weight from one foot to another, avoiding grime colored snares. She didn’t pause in her steps, just as the couple-of-centuries old ghoul followed her across the cobblestone in perfect synchronization, but she filed that tone of his for later revision. Two fingers drummed on the, even now slowly turning red, casing of her pip-boy as the black helmet turned in the shadows. The Cloud was starting to leave a mark on her equipment.

Behind and to the side off her, just as they passed a small fountain, she spotted him light up another smoke with a flick of his thumb, a quick conspicuous flash of orange amidst rust red. He all but bit into it and gave her a barely constrained shitty grimace, exhaling a thick plume of smoke from his nostrils. This was the fifth Dean had lit in the past hour, and the only one he might be able to finish, the rest being deposed in various ways that involved minor crushing or all-out mayhem. His snide remarks have trickled to almost a standstill - almost, and what little he did offer was more acidic than acerbic. And the Courier was not oblivious to this shift.

When it came to Dean Domino, she was not sure whether to think of him as frightening or just mad. Not Elijah mad, not the explosion of insanity ready to take over like a whirlwind of nuclear blast - but instead the slow burn that ate the people away from the inside over the years. It was always at the forefront of her mind - Domino had _chosen_ to stay in this hellhole and knew this city, its traps and pitfalls the same way she knew the secret back-roads through the Deathclaw infested quarry. He wasn’t safe to have around. God, with all his tightly focused aggression and muscles to rival a Securitron, was a safer bet to have at her back than this ghoul.

She still had to admit, how much of a feat, a miracle, it was that he had survived alone in this place for two centuries. This, in retrospect, only proved that one should not stay alone in the room with him; particularly, any chairs or any other frequently used piece of furniture, he had been left alone with should be thoroughly checked for methods of mass destruction. Only ironically, it was thanks to the bomb collars of all things, that she felt safe enough to turn her back on him now.

She managed to steal another glance of the sour singer who seemed to alter between deciding whether to throw one of the saturnite knives at her back or stare off into the Cloud. He was like that, she noticed, running between hot and cold, or both at the same time. But neither hot nor cold was accurate enough to describe Dean’s current state.

Her mind turned to the exact moment of meeting him, his polite offer to ‘put her feet up’, chair rigged with explosives and all. And she remembered how seriously she had considered shoving that overblown ego of his so far down his throat the collar wouldn’t be able to make a peep. But she had relaxed and decided, not now. Let him be pleasantly surprised when Elijah broke the news to his delicate sense of self-worth. It was all the sweeter watching him under the haunting light of Villa’s holograms where the severity of the situation finally dawned on him as he tried to keep his face from contorting into vicious visage of murder, his little joys and delusions crushed by Elijah’s ultimate bargaining chip.

_I die._

_You die._

_We all die._

She was woman enough to admit that she was a petty sort, and the look on his face when he realized that the bomb collars were now linked, as opposed the time when no hell or high water could’ve made the scavengers cooperate, made her wish for a functional camera. In absence of which, she was grateful for her exquisite memory.

There were some downsides.

His presence hanging on her back was by now starting to feel like a little threatening cloud of its own. It was becoming noticeable, distracting. Sierra Madre liked to punish distraction with death, and in all her time as a courier, she had never worked quite as hard as she did on the quickest way to deposit the ‘Dean Domino’ package on that marked roof.

“Is there any particular reason why we’re going the long way around?” She heard him call, probably with a well placed sneer she did not bother to look at. His inquiry was likely referring to the way they have managed to avoid patrols but still went further out of their way. It was too much to hope that he wouldn’t notice. Domino likely knew this town of his with grand intimacy - where every pebble was, each smear that the Cloud had left in its wake.

“I need to check something,” was the simplest reply she could give.

“We’re well stocked for the show.” For this, latest episode of ‘survival of the fittest’, at least.

“I need information.”

“Information? About what?” Now she was getting preposterous!

“About what had happened here. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”

“The bomb happened. I would have thought _that much more_ obvious.” His derisive snort was followed by ‘tourist’ in combination with something utterly unflattering.

Guilty was certain that she had done _something_ to offend him - the whole poster ordeal, minor as it was, but she had a feeling that it _will_ come back to bite her eventually. No, this was something bigger, deeper; but she didn’t know what it could be and, curious as she was, still wasn’t about to press the issue. Not when the street ahead of them had a pack of mutated suits on the hunt.

She signaled him to follow her into the shadows and he did so without a word - without a complaint, which did nothing for the growing unease between them. There was a large patch of Cloud ahead which they could use as a cover until the Ghost People shuffled off to the other end of the building. They rushed through it as fast as they could, balancing trying not to get noticed and not die of poisoning as she felt her lungs burn and be crushed in equal measure.

Sticking to the wall they crawled along the buildings, always some distance behind the locals who seemed insistent to follow the same path the two of them were heading. Maybe this was the same pack that had tried to corner them in the café? If so, it was good they weren’t persistent enough to have tried and invade the building through the other entrance beyond sending just that one pack member.

She breathed more easily, and as shallow as the Cloud allowed, when their paths ultimately diverged.

Constantly checking her pip-boy for location, the marker showed they were very close but with twisting streets and more often than not barred doors, finding that path proved more and more an exercise in futility. One would think that it would be accessible from the top but not all roofs were connecting in such a way that would allow them to cross safely, while on the other end, some of the Villa’s balconies have collapsed blocking otherwise direct passageways. She understood now what those messages about Sinclair ignoring all the construction that didn’t involve his darling casino meant. Not even the Cloud, with its strange capacity for conservation, could preserve shoddy construction and keep the walls ‘glued with spit’ upright. Right now, they were rats caught in Madre’s maze, a fitting description considering the resort’s history, and it made her chuckle.

“Dead end here, dead end there...” she said zooming in and out her map, cursing its path-finding, and turned to the ghoul who was, quite nonchalantly, smoking a cigar with one hand in his pocket - a commercial picture of someone feeling right at home in this place. That alone should be enough to have ice form in anyone’s stomach. “Is there a single building with an intact staircase that would get us up?”

There was no answer.

“Domino,” she called, fine flat line of her patience not wavering.

“Don’t frequent Puesta del Sol much. As in, at all.” He paused, drawing in smoke like some kind of ancient wyrm, while looking over the seemingly empty street. And he knew, as she had learned, that standing around idly could only end badly for them. Despite that, he continued leisurely, “I do, however, remember an explosion from a few decades back. A couple of tourists took a wrong turn and headed straight from the front gate here.” His voice had this tone of boredom but it was a ruse, he positively delighted in dispensing these little bits of wisdom and experience at her expense. “They were well equipped, for people who crawled out of the wastes - I mean, I was surprised that they weren’t crawling on _all fours!_ …But they did manage to blast through half the town before the dust settled. They died, of course, but the distraction did allow me a clear way to… well, quite a few places actually. They managed to hold against the Ghost People all night, you see.”

“Good ol’ Mojave resourcefulness,” she clicked her tongue. Arrogant ass had to turn something simple as asking for directions into performance and an act of groveling at his feet. Ah, but to see his face should he survive the Madre and meet those who _do_ go around on all four. Throwing him in the same room with tunnel lurkers would be an interesting sight. “And I bet you know exactly where the site of this explosion is?”

He paused, taking a long, languid drag, letting smoke curl and mix with red cloud. It was the type of pause the Courier herself had on occasion inflicted upon others - although never in combination of a bomb strapped to their throats. It was a good tactic, but she planned to avoid being on the receiving end from here on.

The singer looked around slowly, taking in the scenery, drinking in the atmosphere. Never rested on her, though. His eyes stuck to the old wooden terraces and perilously dangling blinds that would have fallen off long ago had it not been for the mystical properties of the Cloud.

“If I ever had to come here, I stuck to the overhangs and roofs - like little sidewalks up here.”

“Yes, they’ve certainly been helpful so far,” she answered slowly, a measured response while dancing around gunpowder encrusted eggshells. If was fun up until this point. It was growing less fun by the minute.

“The ghosts don’t crawl up there much and it has a clear view. Clear enough, anyway,” he continued, paying not the slightest bit of attention to her.

“…Domino…” she started, resisting the rising tide of wanting nothing more than to toss him towards the point he was preparing to make and was taking the long, red carpeted way around, but at the same time knowing by now how that was not a way to handle Dean Domino. Because to handle Dean Domino was to handle a bouquet made of sticks of dynamite with a long fuse. “If you’d kindly share anything you might have noticed at that time, it would be a fantastic help in our endeavour to open the casino. And survive. With loot.”

This seemed to mollify him somewhat, mentioning of casino always did, and he pointed, to a wall tucked in the shadows between constricted streets and a row of arches, thick, red fog clogged the path... “Through there,” …and a narrow but still decently man sized hole at the end of it.

“You are kindness personified,” she said with a smile, maybe squeezed through her teeth if one had a good ear, and quickly turned on her heel. That he soured her fun wasn’t what bothered her. That he managed to rile her up and so obviously intended to do it from the very start, _did_. The question of what she had done to piss him off, was steadily becoming paramount - and knowing when she was in the possession of leverage would also be more beneficial to her, instead of wasting it on a useless off-hand comment.

In the end, fun as it was, she _needed_ to avoid any serious confrontation so long as this bomb was hanging around her neck. Once that thing was off, all bets will be tossed out along with it.

:*.*.*.*.*:

They reached the second floor easily enough, leading through several demolished sitting-rooms, which were obstructed only by a few traps - a clear signal that the Ghost People knew even about this little hidden away walkway - and less than scant few minutes later they were out in the open once more. Elijah’s unmistakable voice came through her pip-boy almost immediately.

_:You’re at the Ghoul’s Gala are… now make him stay.:_

So, she concluded with a frown, he was definitely tracking their position. Another pip-boy? Or had he brought something more sophisticated from the Big MT?

But could she track him back?

Now _that_ was an interesting question she’d love to have an answer to.

“So this is where I’m supposed to put on a show? Played at better venues, let me tell you,” Dean called, a slight timbre in his voice and both of them walked over to a single cable stretching across the rooftop. Alone spark pranced on one end of the torn cable. Truly a pitiable stage. “What is that there… wiring? Looks… looks like it’s tied to the sound system in the Villa, except that snipped section.”

Nurse passing the scalpel indeed. The woman sighed and pushed the helmet up a bit to rub her eyes. Elijah was going to kill them all at this rate.

“So… what, I stand here, hold the two ends in my hands and tap them together like cymbals?” She heard him say behind her, sneer and anger and humiliation wrapped in one ghoul-sized package. It only seemed to propel him to talk more.

“If re-connecting the speaker system is part of the Gala Event, yes,” she turned and he caught the motion of her pulling the visor down. She did it again! And it irked him just as much as it did earlier, but his focus was solely on his pitiful part in old man’s plan.

“Look…” he gestured wide at the rooftops, the area around them and his usually so controlled voice cracked just a notch with panic, welling up at nightmarish possibilities. “I strike up the speaker system, there’s going to be ghosts all over this place. Any change in the sounds around here… the Ghost People are not big on talking, they are big on listening. Hunting. Killing. More vicious than music critics, trust me.”

Seeing how most of the musical critiques these days are usually settled with a bullet, she had to guess it was done a little less bloody back in the old days. Not that it mattered.

“All right then, what’s it going to take?” _Short of breaking your legs_ , she mused on the possibility, feeling the aggravation settle in. Her facial expression masked, Dean was fortunate not to see the direction her thoughts have taken her.

“Take?” He repeated insulted, as if she was offering his some meager penny for one of his most prized, _most expensive_ shows. “It’s not going to take anything because you couldn’t offer me _anything_ to stay here. The Ghost People’ll come out of the woodwork when the Gala Event starts blaring, and when they see me trapped up here? It’s curtains for Dean.”

Or they might lose their appetite at the mere sight of him and go back to the holes they crawled out from, was her line of thought. She was willing to bet the entire Lucky 38 that he wouldn’t appreciate her view on things. When was the last time she had forced herself to keep her tongue in check _this much?!_

Oh, wait-... the Legion.

“We’ll set traps and clear out the area. Will that make you feel safer?” She offered a solution, an olive branch - an old world expression she had once read in a book.

“No. You want to know why? Because there’s more beneath the streets, in the buildings, and oh - _everywhere else!_ ” He flared, refusing and crossing his arms in pure defiance - or in fear, she took notice of his fingers clutching, curling into the worn-out sleeves of his evening suit, at the mere thought of staying here alone for prolonged periods of time. “Listen, you could offer me a steel clad contract for a world tour for all the major cities with Imperial Records and I still wouldn’t stay here!” It’s possible he actually stomped a foot there, but that would be too childlike and too petulant even for Dean, and so she had to have imagined it. Even the part where his foot did move a little.

The Courier turned away from ghoul’s fume and spit and old world references she couldn’t all decipher, and looked over the expense of the district. Fog of rust rubbed against them as it did against the buildings, slowly, languidly, like a perverse lover clutching and never letting go. It had blocked most of their view but from what little the Cloud allowed them to see she came to one conclusion,

“I predict an awful lot of backtracking in the near future.”

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

Dean had taken residence on the only usable couch in the room that had seen better days. There wasn’t much else for him to do while she busied herself, trying to fix the terminal. He was no tech expert and he had  _ ceremoniously _ refused to act as a human conductor until it was safe enough for him to remain on that roof, alone, for an extended period of time. Not that he needed to repeat himself to that woman; he had already made his position perfectly clear - wild horses and angry hippos couldn’t drag him up to that roof and a pack of rabid wolves couldn’t get him to stay.  And the Villa was compromised by critters far worse than that. 

Therefore, the woman in question had little choice but to make some room for herself behind the 200 year old terminal. The screen kept flickering rapidly and occasionally a spark would fly off left and right, and in turn she would let out a quiet curse before reaching out for parts littered around her feet. She was busily at work to keep him safe. Just as she should have been doing right from the start, Dean nodded with a cantankerous huff of smoke, instead of rushing off to whichever corner offered the most tempting of dangers.

By this point the Courier, with fingers covered with prickly electric dirt, old grease and paper thin layers of red cloud, couldn’t think of ways in which, when compared to the old singer, God or Christine would be able to cause more running around and pleasing and  _ compromising _ to stay in one spot. There were other options - there always were - but she had already settled on keeping the old man alive. For now. That he would prove useful was still up in the air, but that he would prove amusing was guaranteed. Honestly, she couldn’t think of any other reason why she would try to boot-up an ancient terminal in place where being stationary for extended period of time spelled death otherwise.

And thus, here they were. At the broken down terminal, designed and installed to control the holograms, and all he could do was smoke. He’d like to find something to drink too, but he believed it was important to keep a clear mind in situations like these. Besides which, he could always get thoroughly drunk later. Much later. ‘Sinclair’s vault raised to the ground’ later. 

Ghoul’s eyes kept turning to the window and a meager perimeter of explosives he had set up as a protection while she was being hampered down with work, but to Courier’s mind it was more of a  _ ‘Obviously  _ I can offer useful assistance when I choose to,’ show. It reminded her of Rex, all happy and proud, bringing her a molerat corpse.

Dean sighed. Then, he lit another cigar. And once more, he sighed, this time - loudly.

“How much longer is it going to take?”

The sound of sparking wires and metal was his only answer.

“Sierra Madre isn’t getting any younger,” he prodded further, voice grating on her ears like an old chalkboard slowly sliding off the wall - which was the intent, no doubt.

“You  _ know _ you could have just stayed on the roof and waited for me to light the security up,” she called from behind the desk. Her statement was followed by a clink of metal and a sound of terminal trying to establish connection, failing to do so and fizzling out. Also, there was another not so muffled curse worthy of a suburban taxi driver.

“Yeah, and what a prime position it is to get cornered in. Ghost People swarming in on all sides across roofs, the only way down blocked… Marvelous prospect. No, thank you.”

She let out something that sounded like a strangled snort. The ghoul was paranoid beyond all common sense. Granted, he had some  _ very _ good reasons to fuel all that paranoia with, and there was no shortage of nightmare fuel to be had, but still… she had never expected her patience to be tried so thoroughly the way it was now. It was a rare sentiment for her to experience, and not the one she welcomed. Perhaps it had to do with the lack of presence of ED-E or Rex, who were quite adept at stirring the attention away.

With a loud sound of terminal finally powering up she stopped reminiscing and stood up, helmet back in place - naturally - and rounded to stand in front of the screen. The power may be back on, but that didn’t mean that the connections between the holo-emitter, the terminal or even the software for security hologram had survived.

“We’ve been more than successful at avoiding them, haven’t we?” She dusted off her hands across her pants and switched off the pip-boy’s flashlight. His eyes were pulled to its casing and screen now reflecting only a dull red sheen of the tainted air and the meager light the room had to offer.

Oh, because she had ways of tracking them, did she? This high-minded, self-entitled tourist… All wrapped up in that riot armor, thinking  _ she’s  _ some kind of expert on the local fauna after surviving a couple of days in the Villa with the help of a  _ radar _ , when he had survived for decades!  _ Decades!  _ And wearing a tuxedo, no less. Now, that is called surviving with style!

“I’m surprised you can notice where you’re stepping with that thing on your head,” he gestured derisively at the, at this point, highly annoying black helmet which she had staunchly refused to remove to date. She did it only to aggravate him, no doubt about it.

So quickly she turned, walked - no,  _ sauntered  _ over him in such a single fluid motion that for a moment Dean believed she would slip into his lap. And there was a part of him that didn’t mind the idea in the slightest. In fact, that insufferable, starved part of him, he had long since put in the fridge, had optimally prepared for it.  _ Welcomed it! _ After all, when was the last time he had a decent pair of legs within an arm’s reach? Well, there  _ was _ Vera’s hologram, but there was only so much he could do with a collection of photons.

...Not that he knew - or cared - if  _ her  _ legs were worthy of praise.

But the Courier, again, didn’t do what he expected of her. She just leaned over him in, what had to be, a patronizing manner.

“I wear protective gear, suited for hostile environment. You wear  _ these _ ,” her finger was quick and flicked lightly across the bridge of his sunglasses. Her sudden movement surprised him and he hit the back of his head against the wall behind the couch. Not much, it didn’t hurt… and he immediately pulled upright once he realized that he had  _ backpedalled _ from her touch. She didn’t seem to notice, or pretended not to as was Dean’s conclusion because all she did had to be very deliberate, and had returned to trying to repair the machine.

He sneered at how nauseating it was. Dean Domino did not backpedal. He might make a tactical retreat or use the long way around, but he did not balk like a frightened schoolboy. And what possessed her to constantly intrude upon his personal space bubble?! He felt ill prepared for this; which was absurd because Dean Domino had once been the master of the game - on top of it! Sierra Madre wasn’t kind on his looks, but now it looked like his ability to charm was affected as well.

For all the excitement of the upcoming heist, of finally being able to plunder the very depths of Sierra Madre, he wished his luck had set him up with a different partner. This new  _ breed _ the Mojave cooked in its desert wasn’t much to his liking. Too suspicious. Too easy on the trigger. Too greedy. Like he was looking himself in the mirror, only couple of centuries younger.

His thoughts were interrupted and his head turned to the sound of familiar inhuman hiss and a thick metal clang coming from the outside. By the sound of it, it had to be the furthest one out. The Courier had reset some of the bear-traps they’ve encountered, quite obviously not trusting just his explosive touch to keep them safe -  _ that tourist _ ; and Dean suspected that one of the Ghost People had walked straight into one. Hopefully, it would serve as a warning to the rest to keep their distance. 

Unless they knew how to dismantle them. Even after all these years, there was still that little worm of doubt, nagging, questioning… Making him wonder what  _ exactly _ did the Ghost People know to do? Still, there was always a second line of his explosive defense.

“They are crawling back in the streets out there. Your tinkering had better work, postman, or no hologram will be able to save us.”

“I have a name, singer,” she called from back at the table, her voice sapped of patience. Courier, postman… how would the ghoul stuck in a desert resort for 200 years know the difference in the new world? Couriers did more than just deliver mail. “I usually respond well to it.”

“Not one for introductions, then. Manners must have gone the way of the bombs.” Deep sarcasm was punctuated by him dragging in smoke of his cigar.

“Speaking from experience I see, considering you haven’t bothered to ask in the first place.”

“Me? I introduced myself when we’ve first met. I cannot say the opposite happened.”

Obviously none of it happened, seeing how Elijah was the one to give her his name. He was the one to keep her up to speed. “Guilty.”

“You certainly are.”

“And you’ve no idea of what yet,” she breathed out and paused, lips pressed into a cheeky grin under that helmet. “It is also my name.”

Silence stretched like an old world rubber under the Mojave sun, only to finally be punctured by a cough and a puff of smoke. “...beg your pardon?”

She let out a sigh, muffled by the headwear, and looked up to the cracked ceiling. She could still see the traces of the original color in between the peeling mortar. It was such a bad idea to tell him. There was a snigger behind her. A sound of superiority which could only be accredited to Dean Domino. Hell, he might own a patent of it.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” More silence, as she was determined not to react, to let him stew. There was no point to it. After all, this was not the first time her name had run into this kind of reception. Raul, though, had a good sense not to say anything too obvious on the subject after she had just pried him out of Tabitha’s large hands. Dean, lacking any such wisdom, snorted a twisted laugh. “Well, I wasn’t far off the mark when I said your Ma thought you to be something special.”

“Guess you weren’t. But, being a  _ ghoul _ I’m sure she had the time to cultivate intuition.”

A sound startled coughing fit as the smoke in his lungs threatened to choke him as he inhaled hard. But as predicted, the comment made him shut up, and the as the coughing subsided the moment stretched into a lengthy silence. Possibly an angry silence too, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be distracted just now, not with the code being in shambles the way it was.  Her offhand, if brutal, remark allowed her to work in peace for once. Hacking through the system which was on the verge of collapsing, she mulled over the choking strangeness of Sierra Madre and individuals she was forced to team up with. Big MT made her feel excitement and tantalizing fear at every turn, every facility a playground to be explored. Even the hazmat suits with its chattering bones and grinning skulls just made her grin in turn as she lined-up her sights. 

Sierra Madre… now, this town made her fight for each breath and minute of her life. It might be equally enticing in some masochistic way… but, there was no Sink here to return to, to rest her feet and to let the chatting of its inhabitants lull her to sleep.

“How did that work exactly?”

Ah. It took only slightly longer than she expected before his curiosity got the better of him.

“How did what work exactly?”

“Ghoul. Being your mother. I can’t imagine many family traits being passed down-…”

Guilty rested her hands at the sides of the keyboard so not to type some nonsense by accident and ruin the code, turned to stare at him and saw just how very busy he was with the act of not being interested. Legs crossed, eyes focused on the hole in the wall, cigar slightly crumpled between his fingers… She paused, wondering briefly if he truly couldn’t guess or if he was just feigning ignorance at her expense. Neither of which she would put past him and both of which, as unlikely as it seemed, were probable at the same time. She had suspected, a while now actually, that unless he had a cordial relationship with other visitors to the Madre long enough to get around to speak with them, Dean likely had no idea what being a ghoul entailed, how they came about and what they could ultimately end up as.

It was a little sad, not knowing what you were; where you stood in life and where life stood with you. And then she remembered this was Domino she was thinking about.

“She ran an orphanage,” the Courier said finally.

A genuine ‘Oh’ was the only answer she got and when she saw he was not going to comment further on it, out of embarrassment or some other reason, she continued with her repairs.

After minutes just kept dragging on, a bright command suddenly flashed on the screen bringing her back from her fatigued thoughts - ‘Activate Hologram’, it said and it was what she had been searching for. But by the time she finally reached the backup systems she grumbled with dissatisfaction at the nasty realization, a joyful moment was ruined. 

“This terminal controls only one of those light switches.”

“Well then, you better hope that the other one is in pristine working condition,” he stated casually - as of course, he would not be the one to do any fixing. What startled her was how crisp clear and close his voice was to where her ear would be. Glancing around, she realized that the ghoul was practically leaning over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed at the uncharacteristic behavior. He’d go stiff as a corpse each time she got too close to him.

“Wish I was that lucky,” she breathed deeply picking up her rifle as he pulled back - not too much, she could still taste the cigar smoke in her mouth. The black helmet stared at him, possibly contemplating how much longer they were going to spend in each other’s delightful company, and then nodded at the rickety, makeshift walkways along the edges of the buildings, as they prepared to head out once more. “Try to keep up.”

“Oh yes. Wouldn’t want to get too far away from your  _ useful radar _ , now would I? I might take a wrong turn and you could mistake me for some rare monster lurking in the shadows of Sierra Madre, and then what would happen to the  _ heist _ ?”

The faceless black helmet stared at him unblinking, unnerving. Then, wholly to his surprise, she pushed up her visor just enough to reveal her lips with a grin never far away, and plucked the cigar dangling from his lips, gloved fingers ghosting across the ruined skin. 

She brought it to her lips, perfect teeth bit into it, hard, and the glow burned bright for a moment and for a short moment in the haze of tobacco smoke, she appeared, eyes blazing.

“Oh, I’d never make a rookie mistake like that, Mr. Domino,” her voice was like a fucking purr. Pale smoke escaped her lips as the visor came back down and she hopped through the hole, her form melding with shapes and shadows of the Cloud. “Not unless I was up to no good.”

It was over before he could get a good look, read the face, find the spots where he could place his hooks. And there was an urge, an itch, to reach out and tear that helmet off - to tear the whole goddamn armor off. Wipe that shit-eating grin he almost didn’t see. Urging, nagging, probing, trying to get him to do something. As if she knew something he didn’t.

The Sierra Madre held enough dangers as it was, and yet biggest one here for him seemed to be her. Guiding him down the path that would get him killed right as he was to reach out and grab-…

But he wasn’t having any of that.

He wrangled his mind to circle back to now - to here. 

To what mattered. 

To Madre and Sinclair and old slights. 

Two hundred years of waiting for the right opportunity!

And now...

They descended onto lightless streets, cloud of smoke left behind her escape covering his face like a stage mask, wrapping around any and all the scorn, all the frustration - that might have welled up.

_ Like dancing with your shadow. _

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

When he stepped out of their cozy little hideyhole, the ghoul stopped right at the edge of the thick curtain swirling and clogging the small underpass just hair breadth in front of his face. There, just beyond the rusted red haze of the Cloud, he was greeted by the faint blue glow of that silent, indestructible guardian of Sierra Madre. It was the sight, the knowledge of what that human-shaped collection of light could do, that inspired a minuscule measure of relief. If miracles could happen he’d wish upon a star to have one of these at every street corner of the Villa, every balcony and every rooftop - provided they came with proper manners and weren’t aiming at  _ him _ . 

As if there was ever any chance of  _ that  _ dream coming true, he snorted fingering the lighter and slightly crushed and creased paper box in his pocket. It was near empty from constant overuse. Probably not the best time to light another one, he thought. They’ll be doing the run-duck-hide, rinse and repeat routine for sure. Besides, she’d say something,  _ do  _ something and he’d just be forced to spit it out. 

He never did fancy wasting his chips on broads.

They had a talk, much earlier, about trying their fortune with overhangs in an attempt to skirt the streets below altogether. However, Sierra Madre’s luck wasn’t lightning to strike twice, and they were already graced with a godsend fluke of fortune of having simply gone down a set of stairs and voilà! A terminal! It might have been dead to the world and needed a little dusting off, but it was still in one piece and waiting just for them. 

Well, waiting for  _ anyone _ who could look at it and see beyond a rusted heap of junk with no other use but for spare parts.

But the odds of something like that happening again...?

Zero wasn’t adequate enough number to describe their chances nonexistence.

So no, it was no surprise that those little roofs would lead to nowhere.

Frustration was mounting. The ghoul had never before felt closer to opening the casino, and still felt yanked back every step of the way. And not just by local roadblocks.

Ahead of him, the Courier stepped soundlessly over a zigzag pattern made of bear traps and proximity mines. Her head turned to fixate onto the exit enveloped in thick fog, one hand lowered to rest on her rifle, the faceless helmet revealed nothing as her gloved fingers languidly caressed their way around the metal to where the trigger was. She did that often enough - stand and listen, and sometimes tinker with that oversized wrist-watch of hers. In the silence of the Villa she moved like another one of those damned ghosts, and were he merely another spectator watching from the distant sidelines and in no way part of this little freak show, the ghoul could have easily mistaken her for one. Skulking in the dark, watching, more intelligent that most of the suits here… That thought most certainly did not make him want to shiver and slink back into some safe shadow, but it did remind Dean all too vividly how - was it a half a day now? - he had not even registered her presence in his room until his necktie started waking up. 

The bomb had noticed her before he did.

Good thing he had the sense to prep the chair before she walked into his little corner of the town.

“Shame. It’s a lot of work to be left behind,” she finally said, head tilting towards the explosives. She cut a sway though his thoughts with a brisk, moody voice, or at least  _ moody _ was how it sounded in his head. The hell if he could read anything about her beyond ‘aggravating’ and ‘out-to-get-him’. That little tidbit from earlier, the one she had tossed at his feet like a one would treat to a dog, told him absolutely nothing of her. It was war! Of course there were orphans left like little sacks of potato after the smoke had cleared! 

What did she expect of him to feel? After that little stunt she pulled?! Compassion? Consideration? Some nebulous emotion closely connected to caring?! Certainly not!

So far, it all had left him with astonishingly little leverage, and there were no words to describe how utterly unsettli-… no, no, he’d rather pass on that word. How  _ furious _ that made him. Furious - that’s a word he could get beh-…

Wait? What was she going on about?

Dean’s eyes immediately jumped to the mass of explosive devices littering the entrance. It was his handiwork,  _ his _ personal touch all over those mines. Not to mention  _ those came from his pocket!  _ His stash! Months worth of painstaking scavenging! What did she do? Reset the bear traps. “Well why the hell not? Let’s leave the only thing that can properly kill those bastards behind. It’s only a smart thing to do,” the ghoul’s sarcasm could have glued the walls of the Villa back together.

The urge to roll her eyes was strong, and with the helmet in place she could certainly give into it. Guilty was no stranger to leaving useful resources behind. Making a choice between dropping the whole case of bottles with clean water or being fast and mobile, being small and unloaded in the face of a narrow gorge where Cazadores made their nests… It was the way of the wasteland. And it stung, much like Cazadores themselves, but sometimes it was for the best.

Dropping the water, that is. Not being stung to death by giant wasps.

She let out a small, private chuckle at the mental gymnastics her brain was performing.

Hindsight being what it was, they might have overdone it a tad on the number of explosives necessary to keep them safe, but they were in there - and that meant stationary and sitting mole rats - for far longer than either of them would’ve liked. There was something to his argument of course - explosions were the most efficient method of causing dismemberment on a large scale - and while the mines were not too heavy to weight either of them down, they were still bulky, took up valuable space and Guilty carried something with her, something she had no intention of throwing out, no matter how many town residents these bombs could clear out.

“You enjoy in acting like an injured party, even when you’re not,” it was a soft, soft murmur. He almost didn’t catch it, but Madre was a quiet place. “Take what you can carry, hide well what you can’t - that’s the music of the new world and if your stashes are anything to go by… you’ve been dancing to that tune for decades now.” There was a smirk somewhere in that voice, under that helmet. Condescending, all-knowing smirk,  _ superior _ … and knowing there was a smirk gave rise to a feeling the old singer had not felt in such a long time. The one he nurtured with each look at the untouched Sierra Madre, towering over the ruin that was his life. Day in and day out, scrounging for survival in this hellhole, dreaming, plotting and planning for the day when he would finally see it toppled, crushed under his heel!

**_Sinclair_ ** .

Yes, it was the very same one. Only somehow…  _ fresher _ . Not the name, not the face, but the feeling associated with the man, and all he epitomized in Dean’s life sparkled with a new flair, bubbling just under the surface of his rotting skin.

“I’m full,” the black armor shrugged. “If you’ve got room, I’m not going to stop you.”

She dove forward with pip-boy in front of her, amber glow coming off from the screen. When she pushed past him, her shoulder nudged him none-too-gently in the tight space of peeling paint and furniture covered with red dust, he sniffed, his mind reeling back from all too unpleasant undertones that were threatening to undo his focus. Focus on what mattered, a mantra on repeat.

Sierra Madre. The Casino. The heist.

His mouth twisted at her order, her ill-mannered shove, deliberate lack of respect for his personal space - he knew it had to be deliberate - but the lounge singer stayed behind for a moment, his eyes firmly glued to the bombs.

He needed that cigar.

:*.*.*.*.*:

Several corners, twists and turns deeper into the streets of Puesta del Sol, and with his focus properly back on track, the ghoul’s eyes were tightly focused on the shadows of the Cloud ahead. The minuscule movements, the way very air curled around that corner, how beyond that one trap no other had been sprung in their tight net... Some - all newly arrived, as a matter of fact - would call it luck, but not him. Something wasn’t the way it appeared to be. The way it should be. And Dean Domino had 200 years’ worth of experience in this dilapidated town to back his gut feeling up.

This was as close enough to a typical afternoon for him and unlike his partner, he knew that Sierra Madre on the best of days didn’t let people walk down her streets just so and survive with all their limbs intact. All that meant was that they have already lingered at any one spot for too long. And this time the trip to the second hologram would take them back along the beaten path already familiar to them - in plain speaking, they were going right back where they’ve started. The entrance to the Puesta del Sol. At least, that’s where her faithful Pip-Toy marked the location. That mailman and her-…

“…Vault-Tec toys…” he finished muttering low into his chin.

Of course it had to be all the way back at the beginning. Only Sinclair could think installing separate terminals for separate holograms was a smart idea. No, it was apparently too much of a convenience to have a single station connecting them all - he refused to acknowledge the relation between separate terminals and potential sabotage. 

Sinclair’s crazy ideas...

“Sinclair knew how to think outside of the box,” he heard her muffled voice and it made his exposed muscles spasm. Of course she’d be praising that thieving, conniving… 

“What did he do  _ right  _ this time?” He couldn’t stop the vehemence from his voice even if he’d tried. And he didn’t.

“The ability to access the Villa’s security network server from any terminal in case of emergency. There’s no way I’d be able to jumpstart them with main console busted. I’d bet you know... the one that Villa’s police were supposed to use?” She chuckled and there was undeniably an underlying tone of smugness to her laugh. He heard it all right. Dean Domino had a colorful vocabulary of what he thought of that petty degenerate and some of the twisting thoughts must have shown on his face for the black figure of the Courier stood right in front, watching like he was the most interesting thing in sight. It wasn’t the first time she was doing it, either. Dean hadn’t felt this scrutinized for two centuries now...

“What?” He asked with more than a little bite showing in his voice.

“A lot,” she said and he could easily imagine a growing smirk under that helmet. A growing smirk at his expense, no doubt. This tourist, this postman…

“Listen, partner,” the ghoul drawled, slowly but surely being pushed well into ‘couldn’t-care-less’ territory, “I know that even before the war, the orphanages were hard pressed to dish out decent education, but using half-sentences is no way to hold intelligent conversation.” In the red mist as they passed a series of columns, he thought he spotted her shoulders stiffen a bit there and it gave him some satisfaction. Given their situation, more than it should have actually.

“Sure. I’ll happily share my observations when we’re not in mortal peril,” she responded with a flat tone. Hah! Maybe he did struck a nerve! Or maybe he didn’t. She had a nasty tendency to speak flatly half the time.

“In Sierra Madre? That’ll be the day…” smoke curled from his creased lips. Suddenly, her arm came up against his chest - again! She was invading his personal space! - pushing him back, pressing him against the wall, and they both stood many minutes in silence as the heavy breaths and gasps swelled back and forth in the distance. He had trouble finding a place for his hands, and that was not like him. This was becoming a disturbingly common occurrence.

Counting many breaths later, her hand eased up a bit, brushing across the pale rose of what was once his crisp white shirt. With quick steps she disentangled herself from him and moved to the side of the building to see a pair of gangly shadows disappear behind the corner. Behind the helmet, Guilty’s eyes narrowed. The pack was heading in the same direction - the only direction they could go through if they wanted to get back to the entrance of the district.

_ ‘Heh… so that’s how it’s going to be…’ _ she rubbed the gloved hand across her chin, smearing the residue that got under the cover of her helmet. She could taste it on her lips. The Cloud was persistent. It was everywhere, got into anything. 

Dean watched her as she fiddled with that oversized wrist-watch before all but throwing it to the side as much as she could with it being bound to her wrist. And when, with quick practiced gestures, she moved several something-s from her backpack to her utility belt something like a muffled sigh or even a curse came from behind that helmet, but Dean couldn’t be sure what. Still, he wasn’t going to complain if she suddenly felt stuck or frustrated or hitting a dead-end - or all three for that matter! After all, he lost another cigar to her mood whiplash. The way things were going, he was going to give up smoking in the end.

“So? What are we talking about here? An ambush,” it was more of a statement than a question. The ghoul wasn’t stupid. He knew in which direction they were heading. They  _ all  _ were heading

“It’d be nice if we had a fresh corpse to serve as a distraction,” she grumbled.

“If there was any, I can assure you they’ve gotten to those first, partner.”

“Then, we’ll make do. It’s one pack.”

Finally settled, she waved her hand, and quietly and as quickly as they managed, they moved - right behind the small hunting pack and into the small courtyard. It felt like just a bare few minutes since they’ve walked out of the boundary of their makeshift defense made of traps and mines and entered a space enclosed on all sides; a rickety terrace above and only two archways on the opposite ends leading out and down the street. And there it happened. Maybe it was the sheer desire manifested - for him to be right, for her to be wrong - but it was more than a coincidence and still less than something... pre-planned. Either way the chip landed, their way to the other side of the district was not as fortunate as the time they were first spent looking for this building.

It wasn’t a widespread knowledge - likely because there were no lingering survivors, or ever-inquisitive scientists to prattle about the strange behavior of Sierra Madre’s illusive residents, or that Dean, ever discreet as he was, had never incurred that kind of attention - but the creatures inhabiting the hazmat suits now were not completely divorced of their sanity. They have sensed, smelled or tasted in the air that something was going on. They knew, heaven only knows how, that there was a creature in their territory, their streets, which chipped at their numbers. Hunting them down, not unlike how they hunted so many others. 

The Ghost People waited for them, silent and still, staying clear of traps and lying in wait for the living. The two were expecting an ambush, but they weren’t expecting…  _ this _ .

This wasn’t a pack.

It was a swarm.

It surprised her when - this time around - the ghoul pushed her, roughly, out of the way of spears and a gas bomb flying past her head. It exploded, deafening both of them and lighting the street, making the Cloud swirl as the flames gobbled on it. As debris mixed of crushed building blocks and old chairs, tables and one broken radio from the floor above fell around them, they each landed behind a column supporting the building enclosing the narrow patio. Whirlwind sounds of spears flying over their heads, clangs as they hit the old pillars of plaster and brick the two used as cover, or just narrowly missing the face while trying to ascertain just how bad, how quickly their situation had suddenly wound up, were just some on the list of things gone horribly wrong.

The suits hopped down from the terrace and sprang out from the shadows, swaying and jerking with each motion and each ragged breath drawn in through their mask - like sounds of a man whose lungs were to stop working. There were four on the ground now and at least three more on the balcony above, with handmade spears and handmade bombs. There was no telling how many more there may yet be in the building itself; and neither the Courier nor Dean had the luxury of forgetting the street they’ve just came up from.

“ _ There can’t possibly hundreds of ghost people, _ she says,” the ghoul mocked. “I hope there’s an expensive china plate waiting for you to eat those words, tourist!” He called from behind the other pillar. His voice, filled with perverse pleasure at her making a crucial mistake even at the time when his life was on the line, was muffled against the still swirling dust. Oh, he’d savor this moment of confusion in her; this crack in her perfect armor of knowledge if only he hadn’t been the one caught in crossfire of her single-minded stupidity as well. He’d rub it in later, like chunks of salt and acid and glass on an open wound. 

Guilty had no time for singer’s biting words and let them slide off of her as she ducked at the incoming spears, perpetually sharp edges taking off chunks of brick and plaster with a clang of noise that promised body parts being sliced off with ease. In a flash her mind went to Cook-Cook and his  _ kitchen _ , to Divide and carved flesh laying around campfire, and it was as fuel on fire to her want for the sight of Ghost People piled body upon body and a match in her hand to light the bonfire.

Fun. This was fun. She was going to have  _ fun _ .

Back flat against the column she switched the ammunition on her holorifle and while Domino couldn’t see exactly what she was doing he did note, with much infatuation, that whatever it was she was doing it with calm of spreading out sheets to dry.

Of all the...!!

The ghoul wanted to rage but now was hardly the time. All he had was a gun, and a couple of proximity mines, and the gun wasn’t very useful right now. As for the bombs... he’d have to throw them, or place them or do something, otherwise they would explode at the first jerky movement of those walking nightmares and in his face. And - a gas bomb exploded somewhere to the left of him, making his ears bleed, showering him in dust, smoke and resulted in his sunglasses tittering tilted across the bridge of his nose - it was just simply not worth it. Almost opting to throw them away he, nevertheless, quickly shoved them back in his pack. He had to get out.

In the commotion and cacophony of loud noises, one managed to shuffle its way over to the Courier’s position, bear trap strapped to its arm lashed out from an impossible angle and she ducked, pulled back and slid away from each of its strikes, slipping out from her cover and into full view. Her foot came up, heel digging in one glowing eye and she kicked it back with all her strength. Then came the holorifle with its new set of ammunition and with blast of toxic green glow, the creature turned into a mass of slime and dust, curtaining all over her, sticking to her black suit and mixing with the red of the air. But the energy of the blast didn’t stop or disappeared - instead, it cascaded between several closest suits, granting them the same end as glowing residue.

Others paused at the clear, burning sight of several explosions, yet it didn’t make them stop. They were growing ever closer and she knew, they both did as their eyes swept over the gangly crowd of whispering, gurgling creatures, that they couldn’t risk staying here for much longer. 

At that moment when he was looking for an opening for an escape, Dean looked up at her, at the smooth blackness, and then... she disappeared! And just a handful of steps into the circle of the beasts, one screamed or let out a sound close to that, its arm hanging by the threads of the suit. It collapsed like a ragdoll. One breath later, when the two remaining swirled towards the oozing body with a screech and eager wheezing, a blade flashed briefly before digging just below the knee of one of them.

Ghoul’s brows knitted together harshly. This was  _ not _ how he imagined it. But he should have. By now he should have seen this was all  _ in day’s work for her _ . Anything that Madre had thrown at her was a momentary surprise. Nothing to fuss over. No need to rush. It was only his life on the line.

The suit collapsed, bubbly liquid squirted all over her revealing the contours of her invisible form - not unnoticed by the ones on terrace - and the Courier used the momentum to grab the fallen spear and pivot, landing the tip at the base of the throat, at the seam of mask and suit, and tore through! Like she was on a stage, a mysterious stranger clad in black swooping in to save the day, and the shower of spears and explosions blasted around her were just the effects for the show. 

The sheer nerve…

Suicidal and a show off. 

Couldn’t the woman act like a normal human being for once?!

But he did use her reckless behavior to run from one pillar to the next - to any that would lead him closer to edge of the bomb and spear throwing degenerates on the terrace, who now had their gas masks only on her, and closer to open street where he could run for his life. And he didn’t shoot at any of them. Because shooting would draw attention to him and it would be a shame to waste her suicidal efforts. Dean Domino duck and vaulted and did all the things a proper stage star wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t know how to, wouldn’t be caught dead doing unless the front page was involved somehow. He found a pile of rubble and old furniture to take cover behind. Short of breath he leaned to his side of the rubble guarding him as hissing and scuffling and gurgling drew closer. He thought he was - not safe, but unnoticed - when he saw that the way ahead was dotted with several pairs of green dots slowly grabbing forward through the red fog. Panic climbed up his spine like it was a ladder.

It was blocked. The way forward was blocked! And the way behind, he couldn’t see from where he was, but it too was surly as well…

They were trapped. He was trapped. She got him trapped!

He swore - bomb collar or no - once he had his hands on her-…!

“Tell me you didn’t throw away those mines?”

He heard a voice next to his ear, a whisper, and it was like icy fingers dancing over his overheated sides. Dean’s mind made a wide circle around the implications, around the possibilities of closeness and whispering and all that thoughts not at all favorable for this moment because that voice next to him also meant that other things would soon follow her…  _ and how did she know about that?! _

“You mean the ones  _ you  _ wanted to leave behind?”

“I mean the two you so carefully stashed in your bag.”

“I don’t see how two mines are going to hel-…!!?”

She pulled him to the side, spears cutting into the brick where he just sat. Whichever way they turned, the Ghost People seemed determined to drag them away this time. He huffed, breathed deeply and coughed.

“Aren’t they persistent,” he heard her, heard a grin and a laugh in her voice, and was tempted to offer a scalding rebuttal when her gloved fingers curled around the base of his head, over his rough skin shutting him up, making his thoughts stutter. “The way back is still open. Come on.” Dean was forced to look up as she turned his head, not gently at all, towards the direction they’ve come from, before realizing what she had in mind. Scattered among the bodies, several unused gas bombs were left lying around the patio. If his mines went off in the middle of that the result would be quite spectacular. Not to mention it would save their hides. He had to wonder if that had been her plan all along. 

Dean nodded grudgingly. He could do that. Make such a bang no one would dare follow them for a short while. Give them enough time to slip away.

The Courier had started it, started too many things his mind took a delight in taking notice of, but Dean had no intention to underperform - an especially silly thing to think about now. He would be the one to finish it. The resulting explosion, he was aware, would be strong enough to bring down the adjoined pillars and the terrace they supported. He had pulled out the pair of mines at the same time as another creature holding the gas tank dropped from the upper floor. Of course the ghosts could never suffer a broken leg, or something. The Courier nodded and they leaned out of the cover, just enough for the singer-turned-demolitions-expert to toss the mines in dead center of the carnage and for the Courier to hit them with the blast from her holorifle.

It was as he predicted. The ground shook, the air rushed around them and even behind cover the blast pulled at some of his dried skin off. The air grew so thick it filled the inside of her helmet, her nose and mouth. Even Dean, who was used to its toxicity felt overwhelmed and, so quickly they were tripping over their feet, they scampered away to a place where they could actually breathe.

Just outside of the archway leading out, Guilty appeared next to him, from thin air almost, her rifle propped up in one hand and the other propped on her waist. She looked like a burnt statue, black and faceless and clad in red residue.

And behind them - sounds of metal and rubber against stone, and hissing through a filter. They weren’t human and they weren’t happy, but what they were was carrying a promise of a fate far worse than being stuffed in a suit and mutating into an abomination. Dean wasted not a moment this time around. His arm inexplicably landed around her waist and he pushed and pulled her in the sole direction leading out of the cramped alleyway, the way they came from. He wasn’t going to die here. His instinct for self-preservation wouldn’t allow it.

“We need to get away before more swarm the streets!” His tone was of one who had seen similar situation unfold, from a safe distance naturally, and did not wish to stay for the closing act. 

Guilty agreed, but it was grudging on her part. There was a plan and she didn’t like leaving the job half-done. But there was something on her side, other than his hand pressed where her ribs would be shattered were it not for protective casing; that burned and felt sticky and demanded attention. She coughed looking back around to chaotic dust swirl behind them, but Dean pulled at her, preventing any possibility of going back. 

“You made sure the hologram’s not going to shoot on us?” He asked pulling her further down the alleyways he knew so well, despite constantly reinforcing how he wouldn’t be caught dead in this murderous part of town.

“Eh...” she shrugged and felt his grip tighten furiously, fingers digging in and pain lashing up through her side at her half-joking, half-questioning jab. “It will on them.”

Together with hisses and cries of pain, flame mixed with the Cloud brought up ash and debris, and covered the escape of the only two living creatures in Puesta del Sol.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilty: Level 40+ Courier  
> Big MT -> Zion -> Divide -> post game/Independent ending -> Sierra Madre


End file.
